


Accuser, Accused

by magpiespirit



Series: Nothing Left to Fall For [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Betrayal, Dialogue Heavy, Implied Relationships, Lies, Other, Temptation, That Awkward Moment When You Run Into Your Ex At An Execution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:15:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21557611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magpiespirit/pseuds/magpiespirit
Summary: It takes only a moment in Hell to remind them  that Satan wasn't always filth; he was once the Lightbringer, and he wasn't the only one who betrayed Michael beyond understanding. There are other ways to fall, sideways rather than down, and they've been recovering from theirs since they threw their cherished friend from Heaven.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (implied), Michael & Satan | Lucifer (Good Omens), Michael/Satan | Lucifer (Good Omens)
Series: Nothing Left to Fall For [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1609231
Comments: 10
Kudos: 48





	Accuser, Accused

**Author's Note:**

> Listen to _The Pit_ by Silversun Pickups if you feel like hearing the inspiration for this.
> 
> Extra CW for mentions of (past) violence, (past) sexual content, and (past) nonconsensual body modification plus resultant dysphoria. And, I guess, creepy Satan, but is that really a necessary warning?

The reasons for sending Michael to Hell were twofold: firstly, Michael had no personal stake in the Cherub Aziraphale’s destruction. They’d never particularly liked him, but it was less because of who he was and more because they disliked how he made them feel when they accidentally caught a glimpse of the injury in his essence, a reaction which was altogether unangelic and silly. No, they had no reason to stay and watch; it would bring them no closure. The second, and arguably more important reason, was that Michael had been the one to throw Lucifer from Heaven. They might have made a diplomatic decision to share resources for one purpose, but Michael had a reputation. Their _presence_ would remind Hell that Heaven was far from toothless; Heaven was doing them a favor.

They stepped into the vestibule and stood stiffly against the wall, giving themselves exactly eight minutes, the time it ought to take to completely dissolve the essence of a human-sized and -shaped demon of the will possessed by the demon they were helping to execute, plus seven and a half for the sake of intimidation. They allowed themselves a short, awkward smile; they didn’t necessarily take pleasure in death, but it would be one less demon to worry about in the long run. They closed their physical eyes against the uniquely awful lighting that one could only find in Hell, undergraduate lecture halls, and underfunded homeless shelters, and then—

“You’re looking well, Michael,” he said. 

They didn’t need to open their eyes to know it was the Morningstar, the Lightbringer, Lucifer — the rebel, the betrayer. One moment they’d been alone, and the next, here they were with their greatest adversary and their dearest friend, warped beyond recognition and somehow completely recognizable nonetheless. 

They smiled prettily. “I hear you’re not.”

“Open your eyes and find out,” he suggested. They felt a tug of want, and as much as they wanted to blame it on the temptations of the devil, they knew they could not. Lucifer had lost his name, his place, his standing, even his form. Michael hadn’t managed to save their friend from the corruption that had taken root in him, so what God had done to them — _no,_ no, they would keep their eyes closed. As though he could hear their thoughts, he laughed and said, “You’ve always been stubborn.”

“I am my Lord’s soldier,” they said. He could take that however he liked.

Apparently, he took it as an invitation to come close. It took all of their willpower not to flinch when his hand went into their hair — so softly, more of a caress to their hairline than anything — and they felt him lean in, one hand on the wall behind their head. His voice lowered to something secretive and soft, not quite friendly but...inviting? Suggestive? They’d never heard it. They didn’t like it, especially in conjunction with what he said. “Always. So fierce, so bright, so dutiful, no matter what She did to you, no matter how it hurt you. I wonder, did She make you thank Her for it, or did She finally thank you?”

“It’s an honor to serve. She never needs to thank me for it, Lucifer. That’s your arrogance speaking,” they replied tightly. If they didn’t look at him, none of this had to be real.

“That’s not my name anymore, Michael. Let’s not disrespect one another on such a happy occasion.”

Without their own permission, they laughed shortly. “The execution of a pest?”

“A reunion, my love. I had resigned myself to waiting until the end of the world, but here and now, neither of us has to run the other through.”

And there it was. His voice was raw. They knew they couldn’t trust the great deceiver to be _honest_ about his feelings, especially when it came to something they — well, they only wanted him to miss them insofar as they wanted him to suffer. _My love_ was a meaningless phrase, nonsense, the kind of thing a demon would say to get a rise out of an angel. Satan was the father of lies, after all. 

“It would have been glorious,” they allowed with a false smile, “to strike you down once and for all.”

“It would have been hard to do without looking at me,” he countered sweetly. He stroked their hair again. They wanted more than anything to see him, to open their eyes and look into his, to see the changes in him firsthand. To put a face to the overwhelming press of those soft fingers. But Michael knew their own weaknesses; if they opened their eyes, they’d either hit him, or do something else. Something unmentionable.

(It had been _so long,_ and Michael felt the loss of their fellow angels every moment.)

“I can’t stand the sight of you, Satan. Hate the name, by the way — but you always _were_ theatrical.”

“Only when it was necessary. Never with you.” His breath played over their face. They kept still, because they weren’t some weak little angel who let sentiment get in the way of duty. “I have to admit I’m glad to see you back to your old self, you know. I worried. I thought maybe _She_ might not let you return.”

Of course he would bring that up.

Of _course._

Michael didn’t think about it. Some angels had retained damage, either spiritual or psychological, after the War. Both sides had been vicious. And Michael, up against the Lightbringer, had been _outclassed._ Michael could have lost, but God breathed vitality into them, and it changed their form. At the time, it felt _vile,_ and their form felt _wrong,_ and they for a stark moment were angry with the Almighty — but they quickly understood that it was Lucifer’s fault. If Lucifer hadn’t rebelled, God’s hand wouldn’t have been forced. So Michael took all of their rage out on Lucifer, fought him to the precipice, and cast him out. 

(It took centuries to heal from the form change. They couldn’t even bear to look at themselves until they regained their proper one. Michael refused to think about it, about the _thing_ that hadn’t stopped dangling between the legs of a _physical form_ they’d been trapped in until they’d regained full control — it had been in the line of duty. A justified ~~violation~~ gift.)

“You seem to have done well for yourself, all things considered,” they said, changing the subject artlessly.

“Earth would make a better kingdom,” he answered.

“You _can’t_ believe Hell would have won,” they scoffed, almost amused at the thought. 

“I believe,” he said warmly, moving his fingers from their hair to take their hand in his, “that the fight would have been different. The stakes have changed, Michael. Surely you can see that. God made the world for _us._ A place to do battle. Who’s to say She’d still be on your side?”

“She made the world for the _humans.”_

(For angels to triumph. Any humans left would, theoretically, benefit.)

His laugh was full of the same warmth in his voice. Michael didn’t, _couldn’t,_ trust it. So much like Lucifer. He was only trying to get to them, or to get something from them, by dredging up old memories. “Oh, my love, that’s just propaganda to keep the lower Choirs in line. To make them feel like they’re doing something important when they tend to the needs of the creatures created to die for us. And someone, probably your renegade, told the humans, because everybody wants to feel important. But you know as well as I do that the world was never theirs. They were only tending it until we were ready to take it back.”

It made a disturbing amount of sense. But then, Lucifer always had. It was why he’d taken a third of the Host down with him. He was a master of misdirection; he could find one tiny hole, one word or phrase, and twist it so prettily that his lies seemed to make more sense than the truth. He had recruited _so many_ followers from the lower Choirs just by indulging their questions and wrapping his agenda in just enough truth to make them believe he knew better than God. Michael had been among the first to see him for who he truly was, but they had remained devoted to saving him from himself until Heaven was suddenly at war, and there were worker angels tag-teaming Cherubim and getting _slaughtered—_

Michael stiffened, but did not object, when Satan brought their hand to his lips and murmured, “I would not have killed _you._ Struck you down, captured you, yes — perhaps even tortured you for a bit — but not killed.”

“I would rather _die_ than be your _pet,”_ they spat.

“And therein lies the beauty, my love. You would never submit to me by force. Not through torture, not through lies, not through threats. When you finally stand by my side — and you _will,_ Michael, it is only a matter of time — you will follow me and lead my army because you _want_ to. Because you finally understand. God has showed us that She no longer supports your side. We are no longer enemies. You can _finally_ get all the answers you’re looking for, feel that anger you’ve refused to name, and you will lose nothing you haven’t already lost.”

They did not like the feeling that Satan’s words evoked in them. Heaven was falling apart; they’d not heard from God in millennia, and the Divine Plan had been revealed by a human prophet. No one had bothered to question whether the Inspiration had even been legitimate in the first place, because Gabriel had always had unshakeable faith in their Earth emissary, but how long had Aziraphale been a rogue agent?

Was God ever going to come back? Did She even care?

“What makes you think,” they asked, keeping their face neutral, “that I’m looking for answers?”

“Because you _do_ question, Michael,” he concluded against their knuckles. Their knees felt like tentacles, but they stood firm, only the slightest of quivers running through them. His lips were solid, soft, smooth. They would have expected something sloppy or violent, not _this._ His kisses were gentle, and they remembered the quiet explorations, testing humanoid forms for errors by burying their head between his thighs and licking him systematically until he quivered and lit up like a star, laughing together at (what they had thought were) the ridiculous ideas of pain and death, and they _hated_ him for making them hurt this much. He probably knew, but he continued anyway. “You want to know why She did that to you.”

“Let me guess,” they said dryly, refusing to shake or let anything show at all, “you’ll tell me if I switch sides?”

His laughter was, once again, warm. It made them sick. “I know better than that. Nobody except God can answer that question, and I doubt She’s talking any more than She used to. No, there are no good answers. You know that as a practical matter I don’t generally care for methods that remove autonomy anyway. It isn’t a choice if you force them into it. I could no more understand the motivation for that decision than I could understand why you won’t just open your eyes.”

They opened their eyes…

...and saw the face of Lucifer.

It _ached._

He was as beautiful as ever, wearing his favorite humanoid incorporation. With startlingly blue eyes, striking cheekbones, and something soft about his lips, he hardly looked like a demon, let alone the _Devil._ He was tall and lean, perhaps paler than either of them had preferred in Heaven, but he could still shine. That was the most frightening thing of all: _he was still the Lightbringer,_ even after the fall. 

“That’s the Michael I remember,” he said with an adoring smile that gave them cold chills. “Not afraid of anything. Certainly not of little old _me.”_

They nodded sharply. “No, you’re right. I was never afraid of you. Only hoping you’d go away if I was rude enough.”

“You forget that I can sense desire. All higher demons can. You don’t want me to stop, darling. You don’t want me to let go. You miss me desperately. You miss _us._ It’s written into your _soul.”_

There was no point fighting him when he squeezed their hand, when he used his other one to tug their hair, when he brought their lips together for a short, chaste, yet somehow intense kiss. Hell was Satan’s lair. Michael was an angel of the Lord, a warrior, and they had bested him once before, but they weren’t stupid enough to believe they could fight off the Devil and all the minions he had at his disposal. And that was what they would say, to anyone who might find out about this and ask.

They hadn’t wanted it. They hadn’t asked for it. Longing for him wasn’t the same as wanting him. He was such a _hypocrite,_ pretending to care about how God’s ~~violation~~ gift had affected them and then just _deciding_ to act on their hidden desires… 

All angels had them. Good angels knew how to deal with it. Michael was a good angel. They would not let Satan get under their skin. With a frown, they admonished, “I thought you didn’t like removing autonomy.”

“Call it a lapse in judgment. Or blame it on my nature. I don’t care. Are you telling me you didn’t enjoy that? Because I know you did. I felt _that,_ too.”

They smiled. Finally, they had the upper hand. “Sin is supposed to feel good, isn’t it? That doesn’t make it good. You didn’t give me a choice before you kissed me, Morningstar. Where’s the temptation? You’ve lost your touch.”

He pressed his forehead to theirs, mirroring their smile, and replied, “Ah, Michael. My only weakness. My love, my light, my dearest friend. You’re right, of course. There was no temptation. I would not tempt _you_ into allying yourself with me. I want you to come to me on your own. Better to take what we both want than leave any room for doubt, don’t you think?”

“I think you’re arrogant and vile.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere in Hell.” He straightened and kissed their forehead, which — for some reason — was more intense even than the kiss to their lips. It made their entire body shake. He could surely feel it, but did not seem to care to comment. Instead, he said, “There is a place that neither Heaven nor Hell can reach. It belongs to no one. You know it.”

“I do,” they answered tremulously. They’d met Ligur there a time or two to exchange information over the millennia, at least before the invention of phones.

“I plan to spend tomorrow refamiliarizing myself with this form. You’ll meet me there, won’t you?”

It took a moment to get their trembling under control, for the fire in them to subside well enough to leave their voice strong again. The mention of his form helped; it was all an illusion. Whatever it looked like, he _wasn’t_ the Lightbringer anymore. Whatever could have been, would never be, and it was his fault. “And disobey God?”

“Come now, Michael. She is always watching. If I displease Her still, then meeting me, alone, away from my demons, will be a perfect time for Her to work through you again, to _remove me._ And if She does not use you again, then maybe I’m right, and I’m not the enemy you think I am.”

“You are, you’re the deceiver, _The_ Adversary-”

“Yes, I was that and more, a long time ago. I cast off the bonds She forged for me and I led my army into battle knowing full well we would lose. She invaded you, violated you, forced you to cast us out, and we rebuilt ourselves the way we _wanted to be,_ but who gave us those desires, Michael? Who created us? Who, in Her omniscient wisdom, chose to let everything play out that way? We are on opposite sides per Her own design, because humanity needed a choice. Now they’re all on borrowed time. The world _will_ end. The War _will_ have a winner. But my little Crawly and your rogue agent had one single point correct: do any of us know what the sides really are?”

“I…”

“God is watching. God _regretted_ creating humans, and if She can regret that, She can regret anything else. Do you know what I think? It won’t be Heaven against Hell at all. It will be the Old Ones against the New Ones. Us against them. And I think you’re smart enough to know that if we don’t work together, we’ll lose. If it becomes a three-way free-for-all for too long, She will step in — She’ll have to — and She’ll keep Her promise to the humans.”

The worst part was that this all made perfect sense. Satan was not trustworthy, but perhaps…

Well.

~~Perhaps God wasn’t trustworthy either.~~

“You can’t trick me,” they told him, “and if you’ll excuse me, I have holy water to collect.”

“Boring. Fine. I have to choose a replacement for Duke Ligur anyway. And Michael, darling? I’ll understand if you don’t come tomorrow, but I want it more than anything else I can have at the moment. Please, think about it,” he said with a quiet smile, and left them alone in the vestibule once more.

They closed their eyes.

It had never happened.

**Author's Note:**

> If I decide to write a follow-up to this fic (and I kind of hope inspiration does not strike, because Satan creeps me the fuck out), this will be more relevant, but as implied above, my Satan has uses he/him pronouns, but always has a vulva and in fact gestated and gave birth to Adam Young. Michael is nonbinary and prefers not to manifest any genitalia at all...and doesn't like having a penis, especially by force, which I alluded to in this. Why do I keep writing fic in which the implication is "God gave me a body that doesn't suit my identity" when angels should be the last beings to experience dysphoria?


End file.
